Miles of Sea
by elomelo
Summary: The wedding of John Watson and Mary Morstan and what followed after. Holmes/Watson
1. Part I

_This fic is inspired by Volcano, a beautiful song by Damien Rice, which I highly recommend you listen to while reading this fic. I don't know – it sets the mood. The lyrics at the end of this fic are from the same song.

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**MILES OF SEA

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Mary, beautiful Mary, in her mother's white gown and veil, his mother's pearls around her graceful neck, looks at him, smiling.

Watson can't figure out for the life of him why he is so bloody nervous. He tells himself it's the fact that he's holding the hand of the most beautiful woman in the world in front of God and everyone he's ever known and tolerated for more than twenty minutes. He tells himself it's not the man sitting at the back of the church, fingers itching for his violin or a bottle of gin. It's not those gray eyes that make his hands tremble over hers. They're so soft, her hands, he feels guilty for pressing his calloused palms against them.

Guilt. The doctor knows a lot of guilt. He tells himself not choosing Holmes as his best man was kindness. He tells himself that when he swallows, he doesn't think of the pale column of throat under the collar of Holmes's shirt.

_He's my friend. He should be happy for me._

Holmes is far from happy. Sure, he put on a clean coat and shaved this morning. Sure, he crawled out of the dark sitting parlour that smells of stale liquor and the blood from the strings on his violin. Sure, Gladstone is somewhere under Watson's customary armchair, giggling like some giddy schoolgirl instead of the watery-eyed pug that he is. Sure, he looks every part the slightly barmy detective everyone takes him to be but he can't stop the trembling of his hands even as he tucks them into his pockets. He can't stop the clenching in his chest as Watson kisses Mary or the shaky breaths as they walk back down the aisle, hand-in-hand.

Their eyes meet for a brief moment, gray against blue. Time seems to stop. Breaths catch in throats, collars seem too tight. Holmes has an overwhelming urge to rush forward, social niceties be damned, and shake Watson and hit him and kiss him and hold him and hold him and –

The moment is over.

The married doctor looks to his bride and kisses her gently. When he looks up, his friend is gone. And he can't help but feel something else is well.

_What I am to you is not real  
What I am to you you do not need  
What I am to you is not what you mean to me  
You give me miles and miles of mountains  
And I'll ask for the sea_

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This will probably remain a oneshot but I might consider it extending to something multi-chaptered, depending on the feedback I recieve. Please let me know what you think.

**Edit: **Miles of Sea will now be multi-chaptered. Please stay tuned for updates! And don't forget to review ~


	2. Part II

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed this story. I have decided to continue this fic and I apologize for the ridiculously long wait. The second part/chapter is inspired by another song by Damien Rice titled 'The Blower's Daughter'. I highly recommend you listen to the song as you read the fic – it is a sad but powerful song and sets the tone for this part of the story. __**Please note the M rating.**__ If it's not your cup of tea, please find another teapot. I hope you enjoy.

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**MILES OF SEA

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**Part II.**

_And so it is  
Just like you said it would be  
Life goes easy on me  
Most of the time  
And so it is  
The shorter story  
No love, no glory_

He comes in the night, like a thief. Holmes opens the door and does not pretend that he wasn't standing by the window like some lovesick adolescent. Because the first thing that comes out of his mouth is that Nanny's away and then somehow the door's shut and Watson is pressing him against the coat stand and kissing his mouth so hard it hurts. The taste of mints and wine fills his mouth.

He groans.

They're chest to chest, groin to groin, and Holmes has his ink-stained fingers in Watson's mouth as he blows air over a nipple straining against white shirt.

Watson doesn't speak of an average man's limited salary as they rip off shirts and waistcoats and collars.

They make it to the study, mouths melded, tripping over chairs and books and Gladstone. There's a snap of violin but Holmes doesn't care. They fall onto the chaise, hands tangled in hair, stubbled chins rasping against each other.

Trousers are shucked.

He arches into the hardness pressing against his own. "Watson," he breathes. The pins from the cushions push into his back.

Watson looks down at him, lips swollen, hair mussed. "Are you sure?"

"Shut up."

For once, Watson obeys. He spits into his hand but Holmes hisses into his shoulders, nails digging into his back as Watson pushes into him. It hurts, oh gods, he's being ripped in half and in fourths and in eights _– _he murmurs and gasps into Watson's skin, the junction of collar and neck, concentrating on the jut of bone there instead of the traitorous tears squeezing past his eyes. The burn eases slightly when Watson begins to move. Slowly first, then faster. He changes the tilt of his hips slightly and Holmes bites Watson's shoulder in surprise, taking in the sight of the man, slicked in sweat, skin dirtied and smelling of stale alcohols. He is beautiful.

When they're done, Watson puts a hand on his cheek hesitantly. Holmes has shut his eyes and forced his breathing to seem natural, his chest rising and falling, his breath tinged with the roughness of drink. When he opens his eyes, Watson is gone.

He turns, pulling his knees to his chest like a child, pressing his face against the warm fabric of cushion. He knows he will lay here like this for hours, thinking of Watson's face when he moved in him and how underneath that dirt and musk, he smelled of talc and roses.

_I can't take my eyes off you  
I can't take my eyes off you  
I can't take my eyes off you  
I can't take my eyes off you  
I can't take my eyes off you  
I can't take my eyes...  
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_Please review – your comments, as always, are appreciated. I haven't decided on how long I will make this fic but probably 5 chapters. Somewhere around there.  
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	3. Part III

_Thank you for the comments. Here's part 3 of Miles of Sea. I'm thinking there might be 2 or 3 parts left before the story comes to a close. Please note I'm twisting canon to fit my own devious purposes. My apologies if I murder the plot. Oh, and no song this time. There might be one next time.

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**MILES OF SEA

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**Part III.**

When he sees her next, she is not wearing white. Instead, she is draped in plum velvet and her skin is shiny with sweat though she smiles faintly at him. She holds out her hand and he kisses it, taking a fraction of a second longer than he usually does. When he looks up at her, he notices the blood in her cheeks and the slight trembling of her lips.

"Congratulations, Madame," he says.

Her eyes widen for a moment and he nods, confirming the fact and taking the seat across from her.

"I will trust your discretion, Mr. Holmes," she says coolly.

He praises her control but notices the unconscious movement of her hands which settle on her stomach. "Of course." He lowers his voice, his own hands betraying his pain though he tucks them in the pockets of his dinner jacket. "You are well?"

"Yes." But there is a slight hesitation.

He opens his mouth to say more but feels the slight warmth of another presence and opts for what he hopes is his trademark joviality. "Watson, old boy. Nice of you to join us."

The doctor shows no surprise at being detected and squeezes his shoulder before pecking his wife on the cheek and taking his seat between them. The smell of rubbing alcohol still lingers as they begin their meal.

Holmes feels like someone's cut out his heart and served it as the main course. But his heart is still in his chest, hammering like a woodpecker.

"Something wrong with the meat, Holmes?" Watson inquires, dabbing a napkin at the corner of his lips.

Holmes swallows, thinking of where those lips have been on his body – _and hers_ – and shakes his head. He forces his hands to stop trembling and makes a show of chewing.

Satisfied, the doctor returns to his potatoes.

The evening goes slower than it has any right to and before they start on the dessert, Holmes excuses himself, mumbling something about his housekeeper coming home earlier than he thought. He stumbles outside before Watson can stop him and his feet carry him home.

Nanny opens the door and he lets her scold him. Her calloused hands take his coat and push him into the bed. She pulls the blanket over him and makes to leave but feels his hand grab hers in his feverish haze.

She sighs noisily but pulls a chair beside the bed and watches him fall asleep. She knows he thinks of her as dull but she wiped the blood from the chaise and picked up the buttons from the floor. It makes her cringe – _it isn't right, it is a carnal sin_ – but she can't help but cringe further at the thought of the great detective's heart being torn right out his chest.

So when she hears the bell and then the knocking on the front door, she ignores it in favour of making the soup Holmes won't admit he likes.

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_Please review – your comments, as always, are appreciated._


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